White Hole
by Chibizoo
Summary: All things that live must be beautiful. Written as an antithesis to Neko-chan's "Supernova" in Malik's point of view. [YM x M]


Author's notes:  
  
Blame Neko-chan. She wrote "Supernova". I just _had_ to write an antithesis to it.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-gi-oh. No manga artist would be crazy enough to have orange and black hair. -_-;;;  
  
Warning: Almost yaoi-ish material [MxYB], [MxYM], a bit of a sadistic flair  
  
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A black hole is the occurrence after a supernova; a moment of time where everything, light and dark, is consumed into a pinprick of nothingness. Infinity. Eternity.  
  
A black hole is a property of the universe; faulty, susceptible to end any moment. What lies after the black hole? What lies beyond infinity?  
  
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White Hole  
  
He is beautiful.  
  
So truly beautiful, so ultimately so.  
  
I stroke, softly, tenderly, his downy white hair with my tanned hand. I can feel the gentle texture prick the very tips of my fingers, silky and smooth.  
  
I lean over towards his gently sleeping face and brush my lips against his cheeks. He twitches, I think. Can he feel the heat escaping from my half-parted lips or the nervous tingle of my chest?  
  
So beautiful, so peaceful his face. Lashes long and exquisite, expression not pained nor corrupted but peaceful. I want to kiss him again; I do. Tongue trailing down his neck, the gleam of my saliva glazing his alabaster skin.  
  
"I love you," I whisper to him.  
  
And I mean it. I mean every word I truly say; I mean the fact that I would have sacrificed everything I had for him; that I yearned to hold his hand and tell him that my stomach churned and chest tightened every single time he fixated those burning amber-brown irises on me.  
  
So beautiful he is.  
  
Snow-white hair. Ivory face. Long lashes, delicate, smooth, deliciously sensuous lips.  
  
So beautiful he is tainted with crimson, gaping hole in his chest gurgling with pink and scarlet, releasing streams of foam with each dying breath. So beautiful with skin peeled back in fleshy layers, revealing white bone and cartilage, veins open and streaming scarlet; a plague of crimson consuming his body.  
  
He who owns me says that Bakura looks like a dolphin. A beached dolphin lying on a sandy shoreside, helpless to the stifling sun as it bears down in it and reduces its beautiful skin into shrivels. Helpless to the seagulls and predators that lurk nearby and tear at its gentle flesh in ivory-teethed mouthfuls, hungry and greedy for more. Water gurgles momentarily from the dolphin's blowhole and its beautiful, happy eyes cloud with despair and longing.  
  
Longing.  
  
I should have known. I should have warned him, my Bakura, my beautiful Bakura. I should have told him that I was owned already, that he was not safe, that-  
  
A chillingly warm hand settles on my bare shoulders. I need not turn around to know it is him, my true master, the one who owns me.  
  
My master laughs, a crude, sycophant chuckle low and barely audible. His hand travels up my neck, fingers sliding across my chest, climbing upwards until they reach the tip of my chin. My face is being tilted upwards, and I find myself gazing into his malevolent violet-red eyes. Eyes like a supernova before the black hole, like the tension of knowing every shard of beauty around it is a false pretence, soon to become consumed into nothingness. Inevitable nothingness, darkness, unwholesome.  
  
My master smiles at me. He laughs and kicks the white-haired figure - already, I am beginning to forget his name; what was it? - to the side like trash.  
  
"The tomb robber is not worthy," my master explains, giving the limp body - how come I can't remember its name? - another kick, forceful and self-satisfying. "The tomb robber did it. He killed his hikari-snow; he maimed his own pretty hikari-snow and now he pays!"  
  
Can one suffer even after death? Apparently, he who owns me thinks so.  
  
My master snakes his other arm, tanned and bejeweled like mine, across my chest. He wraps his entire figure around me in serpent coils, possessive, cold lips hissing with delight.  
  
He who owns me chuckles lowly. His misty warm breath tickles my earlobes. "Tomb robber does not love you. Only _ore-sama [1]_ loves you. Ore-sama, yami-dark, loves you. Ore-sama would give anything for you, my hikari pretty, hikari pretty which is only _mine_."  
  
I hear him his _mine_ and my head involuntarily jerks towards the nameless, white-haired body lying discarded in the shadows. Wasn't that body pretty once too? Did I ever like it?  
  
I dismiss that ludicrous thought away; I cannot like a dead thing on the ground. Only live things interest me; live, breathing, vibrant things full of beauty and power.  
  
My master kisses me, warm and sweet, lips so cold and tender and gentle. I sigh, half-close my eyes, and feel my body melt until it seems a second skin adorning my Master.  
  
'I love you', I think contentedly, one hand absently fiddling with his platinum-gold locks, so like mine yet sleeker and darker. 'I love you and love you and love you.'  
  
Master will protect me from anything. He is the one who owns me, the one who can manipulate my mind and convince me a million things that I never once believed or realized. He is my soul, my darkness, and I cannot live without him.  
  
That is what he says. And I believe him.  
  
"The world will be ours, my hikari-pretty," my master whispers into my ears, making me tremble and shiver. "There can only be one yami-dark, one hikari-pretty. All others will die, and we will be left, and we shall be happy and love each other and _live_."  
  
Live, yes. Live, unlike that poor thing discarded on the side. We shall manifest our souls to the world and be warm and cold at once, full of beauty and power.  
  
Something's wrong; what am I forgetting? What was it, about the blood on my shirt and the crimson on my fingertips and cheeks?  
  
Footsteps. Someone's approaching. An angry someone burning with warmth and life and energy full of beauty and power. The stranger is beautiful; all things that live must be beautiful.  
  
I want to touch the beautiful stranger and stroke his soft, delicate face, but my master pushes me away to one side. He who owns me looks angry, but he shouldn't be. The stranger is beautiful - he can join us!  
  
Alas, master is protective of me; he doesn't want me to get hurt. I always get hurt and suffer, but master is the one who supports me and gives me a tenterhook to rest my heartbroken soul on.  
  
Master is speaking again. He touches my face before he turns to accommodate the stranger's defiant, challenging expression. "I love you," master says, full of beauty and power, not unlike the stranger's. "I love you and I'll protect you from everything. I promise."  
  
Yes, he will protect me. He who owns me will possess me and hold me and protect me from all the pains and hurts that could overwhelm my fragile soul.  
  
He who owns me looks so powerful as he goes to challenge the stranger. Such a beautiful stranger - I long to touch his vibrant scarlet and ebony hair or perhaps just run a finger down his slick golden bangs.  
  
Wait! I remember now. I'm being protected. He who owns me is protecting me.  
  
Protecting me from who? Who is the stranger with the pharaoh-like visage and meek hikari trailing lapdog-like behind him? Despicable, the way the stranger treats his hikari. Master would _never_ treat me like that.  
  
I give up trying to remember the stranger's name. It doesn't matter, even if he _is_ beautiful and alive.  
  
Master owns and loves me and he'll protect me from anything.  
  
Master says that he'll give me a collection of limp bodies to play with when I'm lonely. Nameless, dead, uninteresting things with bloodied chests and glassy eyes.  
  
Nevertheless, I am happy. Master loves me so.  
  
All things that live must be beautiful. And master always lives.  
  
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End notes:  
  
[1] Ore-sama. Common usage in any of Neko-chan's Yami Malik fics. Basically denotates worshipping of the self by using "I" in the most respectable format.  
  
This fic is rather incomplete until you read Neko-chan's "Supernova". Then, it will probably make sense, though the irony within it is already pretty thick. ;P 


End file.
